Yesterday's Life
by Kedd
Summary: She feels frayed and faded, like a scrap of fabric accidentally discarded and forced to weather the elements. S/J, spoilers for Stargate: Continuum.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Yesterday's Life  
**Author:** Kedd  
**Summary:** She feels frayed and faded, like a scrap of fabric accidentally discarded and forced to weather the elements.  
**Spoilers:** Continuum.  
**Pairing:** S/J  
**Rating:** Currently PG-13  
**Author's Note:** Part of the **sj_everyday** Secret Santa exchange, for **bringingupsammy**, who asked for a mature, angsty Continuum fic. Part 1 gets you half of that... Title taken from Jimi Hendrix's "Wind Cries Mary".

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Occasionally, as she runs her hands along his body, she encounters raised ridges of skin unfamiliar to her. Scars that her Jack never had. More often, she encounters smooth skin where there was none.

She'll bite his neck then, or let out that whimper he adores, or dig her nails into the muscle by his shoulder blades.

It turns out, no matter what timeline he's in, there are some things that make Jack react the same way.

And sometimes, when he does that, she can forget who she's with.

* * *

Her nose and hands have gone beyond the coldness and the tingling and are edging into numbness. She thinks that, maybe, her balaclava could be pulled up a little higher, but can't find it within herself to care. The numbness suits her. It's what she feels. What she has to feel. If she thinks about it too closely, if she lets herself feel anything at all, she's not sure that she'll be able to keep walking.

She has to keep walking. Or Jack won't be the only person she's left behind to die today.

_The circle of blood is spreading on his shoulder, rapidly soaking through his BDUs. The red liquid pools beneath him on the cold stone floor. With her hand resting on his stomach, she can feel his struggle for each breath. There's a tremble in his lip, and his voice is hoarse with pain as he orders them -- **her** -- to 'Go.'_

Her eyelashes are frozen together again.

* * *

Sometimes, when she's staring at him, her eyes wide pools of blue, he can see the love shining out of their depths and he feels a warm glow deep inside of his gut. Then he remembers that the love is meant for someone else, another Jack O'Neill, a General.

It's hard to compete with a dead man.

But it doesn't stop him from trying. It's been years since a woman's looked at him with that kind of emotion coming from their eyes, and no matter how pathetic it makes him, he can't seem to stop himself from seeking her out.

And there are moments, when she's there laughing at one of his jokes, or lying in his arms with her neck arched back, whimpers coming from her mouth as she shudders through an orgasm, or sleeping close enough to him that she's half on top of him, and they're both so hot they've kicked off the duvet, but she refuses to let him go if he tries to roll over and grab it, that he thinks maybe she loves him too.

He doesn't know.

And he's too afraid of her response to ask.

* * *

She's not sure how long they've been walking. Long enough for her muscles to be weak from marching across the ice and her joints stiff from the cold. Long enough for her to stop shivering.

She knows it's a bad sign, when you stop shivering, but she's having a hard time bringing herself to care. Hell, she's not even sure why she's still walking at this point. If she's this bad off, Daniel with his soaked leg is already dead, and Jack --

She winces, sees flashes against the back of her eyelids (too much time staring out at the snow-glare, she thinks), and bends over, hands against her knees, trying to keep it all reeled in. She's breathing as deeply as she can, letting the cold air, only slightly warmed by her balaclava, bite deep into her lungs, that little bit of pain keeping the larger one back.

"Sam, we have to keep moving!"

Cameron's hand grabs her arm as she stumbles upright. But he's getting as tired as she is, and they end up using each other to keep their balance. They're not going to last much longer. And she's not sure she wants to. "Why? If we have to freeze to death, 'ere's as good a spot as any, innit?" She hears the slurring of her speech, but her brain's not working quickly enough to do anything to fix it.

Given the amount of time it takes Cameron to come up with a response, she thinks his has slowed down too. "Ahhhh, I don't like this spot."

The cold hasn't yet addled her mind to the point where she thinks that's a valid response. Especially since every damn patch of ice she's trudged across has looked the same for the past who knows how long. "Cam, c'mon," normally, the plaintive note to her voice would irritate her, now she could care less about anything so trivial, "What's the point? There's no one around for hundr--" as she spins, she spots movement, "-- What's that?"

She raises a mitten-clad hand in the general direction of the figures emerging from the blowing snow. She can't look at Cameron, in case it's a hallucination or a mirage brought on by their exposure, but when she hears him move next to her, she drags up the energy to run alongside him. Head down, she knows she's unsteady on her feet, body too tired and stiff to maintain her normal graceful stride, but they're closing quickly in on the figures clad in modern cold-weather survival gear.

"Wait!"

She stumbles backwards, partly because her uncoordinated limbs fail her when she tries to stop abruptly, partly because of the clenching feeling in her chest. She knows that voice. But she doesn't want to get too hopeful, because maybe it's a trick of the cold. Or her hearing's muffled through all the layers she's wearing.

"Hey! Which one of you is Mitchell?"

She looks at Cam, seeing if he recognizes the voice.

"Jack O'Neill, Special Forces."

Their rescuer lowers his balaclava enough that she can make out the features so familiar to her. And she's shocked enough to respond without thinking, "My god. Oh! We thought you were dead." And she lowers the ice-encrusted wool covering her face, to look at Jack more clearly.

He removes his sunglasses and his brown eyes twinkle, like he's about to tell a joke. "Well. Back-atcha, ma'am."

She doesn't know how to take that.

But then Mitchell asks if Jack recognizes her, and he does, and she feels a genuine sense of comfort, that despite everything, Jack knows her, and apparently well enough that he's willing to come and rescue her from the middle of the Arctic. She can't help but relax into the waves of relief that are rolling over her, and she feels a smile escape her control.

Later, when she's warm on the ship, the realization that he only knows her because she's a national hero who stayed behind on a doomed space shuttle and is only here because of a coincidence will sink in, and Samantha Carter will feel lost and cold all over again.

* * *

His first clue that something is different with this woman comes when he has to go retrieve her from the head in the middle of what is, according to his watch, the night. The sailor who comes to get him appears nervous, hands not as steady as they should be, probably not used to getting unfamiliar, high-ranking Air Force officers out of bed to handle uncooperative prisoners. Or maybe it's because the uncooperative prisoner in question is a resurrected astronaut. Luckily for the crewman, a few hours of sleep have restored his temper, previously frayed from having his training plans disrupted in order to make a hasty HALO jump and go tromping around in the Arctic after a couple of strangers claiming to be Air Force personnel.

The lights of the submarine are dimmed in the sleeping areas, but elsewhere there is a full crew at work. Jack's used to bases that run at all hours of the night, but somehow the narrow galleyways and the creaking and popping noises coming from the hulls give him a sense of unease, a prickling on the back of his neck. The sounds, infrequent and random, don't allow him to forget that he's in what amounts to a tin can under lots of very heavy, very cold water. There's a reason he didn't join the navy; some things just aren't natural.

They head through the galleyways, until the sailor gestures at a hatch. Jack silently dismisses the man, and waits quietly outside the closed hatch to try and get some idea of what he's dealing with. He frowns slightly, when he realizes that all he could make out were some muffled noises and the occasional gasp. If he didn't know better, he'd say that it sounded a lot like Charlie had, the time he'd broken Sarah's favourite lamp and had hidden in his closet, concealing his guilt and his tears behind a closed door. Jack let out a sigh. If she was crying, it would explain why the guards had been so eager to get him. He doubted there were too many men on board this boat who were good with dealing with hysterical women. He certainly wasn't one of them. Never knew what to say.

He sighed again, and raised a hand to rap on the hatchway. It wouldn't get any easier with time, and despite his rest, Jack didn't really have the energy to wait for her to come out by herself. Jack shoved his hands deeply into his pockets as he waited for a reply, resisting the strong urge to fiddle with the handle and inadvertently see if it was unlocked.

The noises quieted for a second, and then a sharp voice rang out. "Look, I'm fine," the way her voice cracks reveals the lie beneath the words, "You don't have to guard me so closely, I'll be out in a few minutes. Just leave me alone."

The sob that follows closely on the final word is too loud to be completely muffled, especially from someone standing right outside the partition. Jack's fingers clenched inside his pockets. So, he was right. Damnit. He briefly debates getting one of the men she had come with to get her out, someone familiar, but he figures the reason she's in the head is so they wouldn't see her like this. Maybe a stranger would be the best option, after all. "Look, Ms. Carter," he begins, and winces, already fumbling for words, "You're kinda making these sailors nervous --" Luckily, he doesn't have to go any farther because the hatch is opening.

"Jack?" The word comes from a very different woman than the one he'd seen earlier. She's curled up on herself, seated on the small patch of floor, her long blonde hair a disheveled mess around her head, her cheeks blotchy and red, stained with evidence of her tears. Jack's vaguely relieved that she's not one of those women who manages to look beautiful as they cry. He'd always found that unnerving and unnatural. What caught his attention though, were her eyes. They were puffy, and red, and brimming with tears, but they held a depth of sorrow that he understood.

Unthinking, Jack steps forward, into the head, casting a quick glance behind him as he closes the hatch again, forcing the two of them close in the small space. "Yeah?" he asks, reaching down to draw her up to a standing position. Nobody should sit on the floor of a head.

Her eyes search his face, looking for what, he doesn't know, but he doesn't think she finds it. It doesn't stop her from letting out a small sob and burying her face in his shirt though. He wraps his arms around her, wishing he was better at this, that he knew what to say, trying to calm her shaking by simply holding her and stroking her back, like he used to do for Charlie, when his son was young enough to find comfort instead of embarrassment in a hug from Dad. It's been years since he's held anyone like this, but as the woman's sobs quiet and her trembling begins to fade, he thinks that maybe there are some parenting skills he doesn't suck at.

She draws in a deep breath (he can feel the rush of air against the skin of his neck), and seems to give her face a last rub, before looking up. "You even smell like him." His face must have revealed his confusion, because she gave a weak, watery laugh, before continuing. "My Jack."

He knew his eyebrow had arched before he could suppress it. "Your Jack?" His mind flashes back to the image of her on the floor, her hands, playing with something on the same chain as her dogtags. He slowly reaches for the dogtags, pulling them aside to reveal a small ring. "Ah." He let them drop, the metal chinking as they came to rest against her chest. "I thought I was dead?"

The way her face collapses before blanking almost makes him regret asking the question, but he buries that emotion beneath his duty. It's his job to ask the questions, to figure out what the hell these nuts in substandard winter gear were doing up in the Arctic in the first place. Any inconsistencies in their story need to be found out, and examined for clues to their true purpose. Nobody wanders around the Arctic for no reason. Still, the way Samantha Carter draws back, as much as she can in the small head, coming almost to attention, makes him believe that the dogtags, at least, aren't wholly fabricated. That kind of reaction, instinctive even under emotional stress, is hard to fake.

"You were killed yesterday, sir." She looks momentarily lost, "Or whatever day it was that we came through the Gate to this timeline."

Now he's the one looking momentarily lost. But based on the stories they were telling earlier, he has a vague notion of what she's referring to. "We picked up that interesting footage yesterday, at 14:38 hours. I was diverted not too long after that, the guy with the leg was picked up around 16:00 hours, and we found you and the other guy at 18:23."

She nods, reaching up to wipe away a few stray tears, and he thinks that she might be cataloguing that information away for future use. Then he picks up on what she said. "I was killed?" He can't help himself, it's like driving by an accident -- everyone's compelled to look to see how bad it is for some other guy -- and his voice is filled with a morbid fascination. "How?"

Her face momentarily trembles, before she places the solider's mask firmly over it. "You were stabbed by Ba'al." Her gaze is fixed just below his left shoulder, and one of her hands comes up to delicately rest against the area. He can feel the slight trembling of her fingers through his BDUs, and he lifts his own hand up to firmly encompass hers, stilling the tremors. "I watched you bleed--" she cuts herself off, looking away from him, and he tightens his grasp.

"Look," he says, and apparently she takes that as an order, because he finds himself caught in her eyes, wondering what the hell he's going to say next, to this supposed-to-be-dead woman who apparently just watched her fiancée, him, get murdered, but he's started talking, so he tries to stumble on, "If even half of what you're telling me is true, you're dealing with a situation I can't even begin to imagine, let alone understand." He gestured absently with his free hand. "Maybe I'm not the right person to talk--"

He's interrupted when she lets out a watery laugh, startling him. "My Jack didn't deal well with hysterical women either." Samantha looks at him as if they're sharing an inside joke, and he knows his face is betraying his surprise at her insight when she starts to grin, catches herself, and bites her lower lip, as if ashamed of the moment of happiness. Her voice, when she continues, is quieter, but no less definitive in her knowledge. "Never knew what to say."

He lets out a grunt of acknowledgement. It wasn't like he could deny it. "Although, I've never before had to figure out what to say in the head of a submarine to a woman who's sort of a resurrected astronaut who's just watched another me get murdered." He winces as the sentence ends. Just trying to twist his brain around it makes his head hurt.

Her laugh is stronger this time, her smile genuine, and Jack thinks he knows what the other him saw in this woman.

* * *

She's forgotten how long they've been interrogating her -- and she doesn't make any pretense that this is anything else, not anymore -- and Samantha Carter is frustrated enough to scream. She's explained the Stargate, she's explained the physics of how it works. Hell, she's even given them some of the equations she's worked out about how it channels the power necessary to generate a stable wormhole. She's told them about the Goa'uld, and the Replicaters, and the Ori; about the Nox, the Tollans, the Asgard, and the Ancients. She's told them about the SGC, Atlantis, the Alpha and Beta sites. She's talked until her voice was hoarse, and then she's talked some more.

But they kept coming back to the same damn question. "Aren't you Samantha Carter, Mission Commander of the space shuttle_ Intrepid_, born December 29th, 1968, died September 13th, 2004, when the shuttle crashed into the Atlantic Ocean?"

She'd tried analogies, diagrams, and simply explaining again and again, about time travel and alternate timelines but she was getting nowhere. Feeling frustrated and angry at their seeming inability to listen, to hear what she was saying, she stared them down. They didn't get it, fine. But this wasn't how things were supposed to be. And worse than that, Earth was in danger, and they were acting like they didn't care and it didn't matter.

As the latest interrogator leaves the room, they bring more water and she takes that as a sign she's supposed to stay here. What the point of that is she doesn't know, since nobody's listening anyways. Her head's in her hands and she's racking her brain for a new way of explaining things, when she hears the rap on the door.

Looking up, she blinks, thinking that the long hours and her frustration have combined to make her see things, because it's Jack in BDUs looking gut-wrenchingly familiar and heart-wrenchingly alive. "Jack." When he doesn't disappear, she sits up straight.

"Hey."

He gives a half-assed wave, and she has to blink to get the tears to stay out of her eyes. His hands are shoved deep in his pockets, his hair's ruffled, and he's leaning against the doorway in a manner that reminds her of Colonel O'Neill's impromptu visits to her lab.

"I hear you've been asking for me," he says, but his face remains blank, revealing nothing. "Want to grab a bite to eat in the Commissary? I hear the Eskimo Pies are to die for."

She laughs at the joke, amused in spite of herself, but it's not enough to displace the uneasy feeling settling in her gut. She has to remember that it's not her Jack, that despite the fact she's become used to seeing that face lying on the pillow next to hers, the lines and angles known to her gaze, her hands, her lips, he's not the same man. He's not her Jack. She steals glances at him out of the corner of her eye, trying to find differences, little things to focus on. He's missing the scar in his left eyebrow. The lines aren't carved as deeply into his face. But the worst is his eyes, when he catches her gaze. He's guarded in a way that her Jack rarely is anymore, at least with her. He raises an eyebrow, and she manages to dredge up a half-smile in response, but she wonders if requesting Jack O'Neill's presence had been such a smart idea after all.

They settle at a table in the corner, removed from the few other personnel having a meal. She's grabbed a full tray, knowing that she should eat while she can, but unsure how much she'll be able to manage.

"So," brown eyes look up at her from a study of what was being called chicken, "Tell me about yourself."

She blinks. It sounds like an order. "I'm a bit tired of talking about myself after..." She trails off, giving a bit of a wave back in the direction they came. She wonders if she can change the direction of the conversation, or if this is just another interrogation, albeit under a different guise. "Maybe you could tell me a bit about you, first?"

His eyebrow went up again, and she reminds herself to focus on the lack of a scar, "I thought you _knew_ me." His voice is challenging.

She knows he's baiting her, but she can't help herself and responds, "I do. For instance," she points at his dinner plate, "You hate steamed green beans. I usually swap you for the carrots." She points at his cup. "That's coffee, strong and black. It's how you drink it when on base and on missions, but at home you add sugar and cream, if it hasn't gone bad in your fridge." Finally, she goes for the dessert. "Since you've gone for a chocolate cake, I'm guessing they don't have any vanilla which you prefer. And the pie must be lemon meringue, since you despise that, along with carrot cake. The pie because you find it slimy, the carrot cake because its has vegetables in it, and you think that's just wrong." She sits back and crosses her arms, raising an eyebrow defiantly.

His face had gone from smugly questioning, to mild surprise, to shock, to amusement as her diatribe continued. "So," he quips "Apparently, you've eaten with me." She opened her mouth to jump back in, and he casually cuts her off, "Ah! I don't want everyone to hear all my dirty secrets." He picks up his coffee cup, inspecting the liquid intently before taking a sip. He pauses, looking back up at her, his eyes assessing her. "Whaddya wanna know?"

Sam paused. Maybe she'd been wrong. "Well, I'm guessing the first significant change took place eleven years ago."

The scowl that mars his face indicates that he knows what she's talking about, but it abruptly clears. "The other guy with you -- he said that Charlie shot himself?" He waits for her nod, before continuing, "Did he, you know," the lines deepen, and he trails awkwardly off, as if afraid to even talk about the possibility.

"In my timeline, he died." She keeps her voice quiet.

"God." Jack looks stunned, staring down at the tabletop. His fingers play with the edge of the table, and the shock turns to horror and then anger. He visibly shakes it off. "The gun went off as Charlie was getting it out of the box. He was startled, but fine." His eyes meet hers, and she can tell he's replaying the moment in his mind. "He's in university. Takin' science. Doesn't get it from me."

His smile is fond, and proud, and Sam has to look away. His happiness is obscenely discordant with the deep sorrow and guilt she's used to. She takes a deep breath, bracing herself. "And Sara?" She's smart enough to know that it shouldn't matter, that it has no reflection on her relationship with Jack, but flawed enough to feel like his answer does.

He grimaces. "Separated. Turns out having a Special Forces Colonel for a husband wasn't what she expected it would be." His voice is bitter, but resigned. Whenever it happened, it wasn't recently.

She tries not to feel relieved. "I'm sorry," she offers.

He looks at her and smirks. "No," he says, "You're not." He takes a bite of food, while she's trying to work out a proper response to that, but he gets in first. "Enough about me. Tell me about yourself, Madam Astronaut."

The anger which had begun to ebb away returns with a vengeance. "I'm_ not_ an astronaut." She tries to keep her voice level, but has a feeling it's begun to get away from her. "I'm a Colonel in the United States Air Force and a theoretical astrophysicist. I've only ever been on a space shuttle once, and that was because I the Death Glider I was in got damaged when we blew up a Goa'uld ha'tak about to destroy Earth from orbit." She ran her hands roughly through her hair. "God, I wish you people would listen!" Her voice rings loudly enough through the Commissary that the normal sounds of cutlery chinking and people chattering die off, abruptly. She finds she's too damn tired to care, worn down by a timeline that she doesn't belong in and that doesn't seem to want her, even if only for her knowledge.

"Oh, we've been listening, Colonel." Jack's tone is quiet, but icy, and in that instant she knows that she was right: this was an interrogation. She takes no pleasure from the discovery. "But we've seen very little proof of anything you've been telling us, and absolutely none that what you think is going to happen, will."

With that comment she knows she'll never be able to forget he's not her Jack. Her Jack trusted her. This one barely believes her. She shoves away from the table, filled with rage. "So, this was another interrogation, then?" She doesn't wait for an answer, continuing bitterly, "Wasn't I talking enough for you? Nice tactics, using the face of my dead partner." Her scorn seems to provoke him further.

"You're supposedly in the military, you should know," he says, "We'll do whatever it takes, Carter, to get what we need to win." He's standing on the opposite side of the table from her, but it's his attitude towards her, his distrust, that makes him seem distant.

She snorts. She's been telling them over and over, "What you need to do is let us fix the timeline -- put things right!"

His eyes are blazing, but his face is a hard, blank mask. "Right to whom? Is it right that my son is dead where you come from?" His voice rings through the room, "If you were expecting me to help you kill my son, well, I'm so sorry to disappoint."

Something inside her snaps. "Don't you get it? Ba'al, an enemy of Earth, did this. And he's coming." Her anger fades to a weary resignation. "He's coming." She feels frayed and faded, like a scrap of fabric accidentally discarded and forced to weather the elements. "When he does, your son will either be enslaved or he'll die, along with the rest of Earth's population." She turns away, unable to deal with him any more. "I'm going back to my cell now."

She walks away. She doesn't look back.

* * *

To be continued...


	2. Chapter 2

"So, Colonel, what's your assessment?"

He was getting damned tired of being asked that question. It's not like he is the only person who's been assessing the tapes of the interrogations. Hell, he was probably, of anyone they had working on this, the least qualified. He didn't understand half of what came out of Jackson's or Samantha's mouths, and while the mysteriously non-existent Mitchell had spoken plainly, his babbling hadn't revealed a heck of a lot that was substantial. He cleared his throat, trying to look thoughtful instead of just annoyed.

"I think they believe what they're telling us, sirs." He looked into the camera that was teleconferencing this over secure channels to the Pentagon. "And I think their stories are similar and detailed enough to be true, without feeling rehearsed, sirs." He cut himself off, for a brief correction, "Well, except for some of the basic stuff about the Stargate, sirs, it seems like Carter and Jackson have told that information many times, but they still focus on different areas. I don't think this elaborate a tale could be completely made up." He paused to allow for the short time delay to see the reaction of the brass. Mostly, there were nods.

A second screen crackled to life, transmitting the familiar face of President Hayes. "If what they're saying is true, there's a hell of a lot we could stand to gain with these allies."

A grim-faced General Vidrine snorted before his reply came through the other monitor, "Or a hell of a lot to lose. It sounds like there are some mighty powerful enemies out there, Mr. President."

"Including one they think's already on the way, sirs," Jack threw in.

"We've no proof of that," said Vidrine.

"With all due respect, sir, we've no proof of a lot of things." Jack said, inwardly cursing his bluntness. He let out a slight sigh of relief when he saw Hayes nodding from the corner of his eye.

"I agree with Colonel O'Neill," the crackly voice of the President said, "And until we see what we know for sure, there's no point in arguing about the rest of it." He clapped his hands and stood up, his face momentarily cut off by the camera. "So, let's get a team of scientists and military down to Antarctica and see if we can find this other Stargate-thing, and we'll go from there." He gave a sharp look at the camera, before ending the meeting, "That's all for now, gentlemen." Jack was just reaching out to turn off his end, when he heard that same voice, "Except for you, Colonel. I'd like a word."

Jack settled back down into his chair and blanked his face. The fact that the POTUS had agreed with him would usually be a good sign, but a private meeting after a few blunt remarks? He'd been around long enough to know that secrecy rarely equalled good things. He waited impatiently as the others terminated their video-links, the small numbers in the corner allowing him to see that it was just him and the President now.

Henry Hayes' blue eyes focussed on him through the screen. "Jack, I like what you've done. I think your assessment of the situation is accurate."

Jack gave a small smile, "Thank you, Mr. President."

"However," Hayes continued, "I don't think we know enough. Now, according to all these reports you were heavily involved with this program in the other reality, correct?"

Jack felt a sinking feeling in his stomach, and braced himself. That didn't prevent him from answering honestly. "Yes, sir. Apparently I was - for about a decade."

"Part of their team, and then their commander, I believe."

He nodded.

"Presumably they trust you." Jack feels the weight of the President's gaze on him as heavily as a full combat pack. "Jack, we need to know more. That trust?" Jack looked into the video screen, meeting the President's eyes. "Use it."

* * *

The Air Force relocates her to Seattle. They set her up with an average condominium, an average car, and an average stipend. Seattle's a gray, monotonous city. It rains, a lot.

It suits her.

She feels as though someone had taken all the individual pieces that made up Dr.-Colonel Samantha Carter and scattered them across the universe. A few had blown back to her, but they were ragged, and fragmented, and wouldn't fit back in the holes they'd left behind. She feels like an impostor, an actor in someone else's costume, someone else's role, struggling with this mundane existence that is now her life. Trying to find the motivation to live it, but settling for just keeping on, keeping on.

Her days vary little from one to the next. She makes sure she gets up and leaves the house, every day. If she doesn't, she's afraid that it will become too easy to not get out of bed. Her job, such as it is, is about as boring and mundane as an occupation can get. She can only put her brain to use internally, or in hastily scrawled equations on scraps of paper in the privacy of her apartment. She works out a few ways this could have happened, a few more ways they could fix things, go back to how things should be. She doesn't write anything important down; she knows she's being monitored, and she refuses to give these people any more than they have already figured out for themselves.

The worst is at night, with the streetlights shining in through the window, their once-friendly glow bathing her empty bed in a harsh light, the distant traffic noise too far removed to disturb the silence which is becoming slowly more natural, once again. She'll wake up, sometimes, reaching for him, and the loss hits her as sharp and hard and new as a bullet, and if the taste in her mouth is the salt of tears instead of the iron of blood, there's no one else around to know that, sometimes, she wishes otherwise.

* * *

She wonders why she does it, sometimes. Sleeps with him. She's slightly ashamed of it, a part of her glad that she can't get in contact with Daniel and Cam, glad that they can't see her replacing her dead husband with this man, glad they can't see the masquerade that is her life. She doesn't trust this Jack O'Neill. She can't - she doesn't know him like she did her Jack, and he barely knows her.

She gets angry at times, knowing that the day when Ba'al will arrive is drawing closer and she's stuck here, doing nothing, working at a dead-end job in a dead-end world. And then not-Jack will show up, and something he says will make her laugh and for a moment she can forget that another world is going to end and she won't have done anything about it. For a moment she can pretend that Jack's not dead, that she's not alone.

Some days pretending is all that gets her through.

* * *

He doesn't remember when, precisely, he started sleeping with her. Oh, he remembers that they were angry, and fighting, and the way she left ten crescents in his back from grabbing his shoulders so hard, just as he left dark thumbprints on her hipbones, but he doesn't remember when. He does remember the moment he realized that the mission - that she - had become so much more important to him. They had gone for a walk, and she'd been explaining something about the upcoming meteor shower to him, her eyes sparkling, and her face animated. He'd reached his hand out to brush a strand of hair away from her face, feeling the fine hairs and the silkiness of her skin as his calloused fingers swept across her cheekbone. She'd stopped talking mid-word, her lips slightly parted, and her eyes met his and he'd known.

He was in love with Samantha Carter.

And then he'd watched as her eyes went from happy and open, to distant and cold, and he'd felt an icy wave sweep over him, settling into a hard ball in his gut. Because it didn't matter if he'd gotten too close during this mission, whether he cared for her more than he was supposed to, if he loved her.

She couldn't look at him without seeing another Jack O'Neill.

So he went back to her house and fucked her. It was hard, and rough, and all he wanted was for her to see _him_.

* * *

He finds himself standing in his dress blues outside her building, huddled close to the doorway to try and get out of the wind and fog. Samantha Carter was apparently out, despite the fact he was replacing the officer who would normally see her for a regularly scheduled check-in. Based on an offhand remark the other man had made, this wouldn't be the first time she was late. A passive-aggressive display of her displeasure with the continued monitoring, he'd said. Jack watches the cars as they drive by, hoping each time that one will turn in. If he'd bothered to read the dossier the Air Force compiled on her, he'd know what to look for; as it is, he's hopeful every time he sees a blinker.

The dampness of the air has thoroughly penetrated his uniform before a familiar blonde head appears out of a car door. As she goes around to the trunk, he moves away from the wall and walks towards her. He can hear her deep sigh as he stops behind her, but she doesn't startle. Instead, she throws a casual order back over her shoulder, directing him to grab the rest of her groceries.

"Sure," he says, and that gets a reaction.

Samantha spins around to face him, eyes wide with surprise, and perhaps a bit of anger. "What are you doing here?" she demands.

Jack snags the last couple of bags out of the trunk - oooh, Frooties - before closing it, and starting to walk towards the building. "Checking up on you, of course."

She belatedly begins to follow, hitting the button on her keys to lock the doors. "What happened to Fredericks?"

Jack waves his hand. "TDY somewhere. And, well, there are very few people who know about you, you know?" He waits for her at the entrance to the building. He can tell by the expression on her face she wishes it was anyone except for him. "Look, let's go inside and then we can talk." Her face subtly changes, her jaw tightening and her chin jutting out. The last thing she intends to do is talk, but Jack's just as determined to change that.

The journey to her apartment is made in silence, and she opens the door, leaving it so he can follow through after her. A quick glance over the place reveals it to be small, tidy, and bare. The rooms are largely empty and the grey walls mirror the weather outside. If he didn't know differently, he'd be hard pressed to find evidence of anyone actually living there. He follows her into the kitchen, casually depositing his bag on the counter. As she starts putting groceries away he scans for obvious signs of bugs, because he's sure there are some, and starts asking the questions that are expected of him. Samantha answers automatically, and he waits until she's finished with the groceries before catching her eye. He gives his ear a quick tug, and has the satisfaction of seeing her eyes widen, before she gives a quick nod. Gratifyingly, she doesn't lose the thread of her answer. Even better, she gestures towards her eyes and then shakes her head. Jack waits until he's just about finished the standard questions, before throwing a new one in. "Want to go for a walk? I've been standing in one place too long already." He sees her hesitate, weighing her desire to get away from him with her curiosity over what he wants. Finally she nods.

They've been walking for about 10 minutes, Jack following her as she moves off the main streets to empty sidewalks before he speaks again. "I've spoken to Jackson and Mitchell recently." Her head turns to him swiftly. "They're settling in. Jackson's doing better with the crutches - he's talkin' about getting a prosthetic, and Mitchell seems to have a good thing going. Nice car, too." He can see the curiosity in her eyes, her desire to find out more warring with her wariness about why he's telling her this. He's impressed in spite of himself - she'd have made a brilliant officer with that kind of skeptical caution - but he's also worried, because it will make his job that much harder.

"They've got you talking to all of us?" she asks, looking directly at him for the first time since he showed up at her place.

Jack gives an off-hand shrug, as if it's of no consequence. "They decided they wanted one person to do it."

Her eyebrow arches. "And they picked you?"

He sighs, rubbing a hand across his face. "They needed someone in the know. And, well," he gives a little wave, "The knees, you know? And the back's not what it used to be." She stares at him in disbelief. If what she claimed before is true, she probably knew the other him well enough to know that he wouldn't let his knees or back interfere with his duty unless he damn well couldn't walk. He hesitates for a moment - he needs to get her to trust him, but he needs it to be natural. Which means not giving her too much, too soon. Because as similar as he and the other Jack seem to be, he can damn well bet the other him didn't open up easily. But she's still staring at him, waiting for more. For the thing that would make him move away from active field duty and postings overseas. He looks away for a moment, drawing a hand over his face. "Charlie's been having a hard time recently. I figured, this way I could be around a bit more." He shrugs, as if his son's struggles were of little importance, or as if he wasn't worried, and out of the corner of his eye he sees her face change for a moment - a flash of understanding and a hint of worry, before the mask falls back into place.

"Nothing too serious, I hope," is her casual remark.

He gives a little hand wave. "School and girls. It seems serious to him now."

She nods.

They walk in silence for a bit, the damp wind blowing through their clothes. He notices that their strides match, another example of her military training and their companionship in another life. The blank expression on her face, the carefully maintained distance between them, the very fact that she's walking in parade perfect form - they all speak to the gap between them now. But he knows enough to wait. So, they walk.

It's been almost fifteen minutes since either of they spoke when she breaks the silence. "Daniel and Cam. Can you tell me more?" Her voice is light and the tone casual, her head still looking ahead of them. If it wasn't for the tensing of her hands, the stiffness of her spine, he could be convinced that his answer was of no great importance to her. But he knows better. And now he knows how to get in.

"Yes."

* * *

Little things still catch her off-guard, even after all this time. There'll be a moment where he'll look at her from a certain angle, light glinting off his hair, turning it silver, or when he'll come in from the cold wearing one of those stupid black toques, or when he shows up wearing the exact same plaid shirt as her Jack wore the first time it was just the two of them at the cabin, and all she'll want to do is go bury herself in her bed and sob. But she bites her lip, takes some deep breaths and soldiers on.

And if a part of her breaks a bit more when, three months later, she realizes that those moments are happening more and more infrequently, well, she's already so fragmented that she barely notices.

* * *

They were fighting.

It happened more often than you'd think, given how little she and Jack had fought in the 10 years she'd worked and then lived with him. But, she reminded herself, this wasn't her Jack. This was another man, a damned stubborn one, and a damned frustrating one.

"Why can't you just tell me?" she said, trying desperately to rein in her anger.

His eyes were almost black. "You know damned well why I can't," he growled, "Or do they not have National Security Clearances in your world?"

"Oh, like that's stopped you from telling me other things," she said, throwing the words at him, mad enough that she doesn't care who might be listening in or what kind of trouble he might be in because of her words.

He moves closer, trying to intimidate her with his height, but she just glares defiantly up at him. If he knew her better he'd know that she's not afraid of him. She knows him too well to believe he'd actually physically hurt her. He holds her gaze even as he leans down to whisper in her ear, voice low enough that even the most sensitive bugs would have a hard time making it out. "Well, thank you, Samantha. I'm sure whoever's listening in is going to find that statement very interesting."

Even with the sarcasm dripping from his words, the anger barely concealed underneath, she feels herself breathing more deeply. The rush of hot air down her neck, the rumble of his voice in her ear, the way the only thing she can smell is him, it all reminds her of her Jack. And she feels her body leaning a little bit closer, her lips parting, trying to hang onto the sensations rushing through her. She can tell the instant he notices her changed mood - his head turns just a hint towards hers, his nose just brushing the hair tucked behind her ear, and his muscles tense. She can make out the pulse in his neck jumping, but from rage or lust, she can't say.

"Be careful, Samantha," he whispers, "I'm not your husband."

She tries to suppress a shiver. He drawls her name the same way. And as she reaches up to him, it's her turn to whisper, "I know."

Later that night in front of the bathroom mirror she traces the bruises on her hips, the beard burn on her neck, the bites on her breasts. She avoids looking herself in the eye. If the pleasure still humming through her body overlays a deeper hatred of herself, there's no one else around to know.


	3. Chapter 3

Her pen flies across the paper, leaving a trail of numbers and variables behind it. The cool autumn breeze blows a leaf onto her work, but before she can shift her weight and brush it away, his long-fingered hand has grasped it, and is toying with it, the delicate crimson foliage crumpling to pieces in his hands. She finds herself distracted by the play of sunlight on his fingers, by the motion of his hands as he fiddles with the leaf, a habit so familiar but so out of place, here, now.

"What're you workin' on?" he asks, his voice breaking her fixation.

She looks up at him, his gaze distant, focussed on the playground across the way. He looks relaxed - jean clad legs stretched out in front of him, a baggy flannel shirt keeping him warm despite the hint that winter's around the corner. But his jaw is clenched and he's studiously avoiding looking at her. She sighs, "What do you think?"

He must hear something in her voice, the bitterness, the bone-deep fatigue, because he turns to look at her, and his eyes seem to take her in completely.

"Sometimes," he says, gaze heavy on her, "You can't find the answers."

She knows that he might be right. But she turns her focus back to the black equations scrawled on the white paper. "Sometimes," she says, her hand steadily writing, "You have to."

She hears a sigh, and a crinkle, and sees a flutter of crimson drifting away out of the corner of her eye.

* * *

He can tell when she's not focused on him. It's been happening more frequently, when they've been making love, her back arching, her breasts pushed forward, and her head turned towards the ceiling, gaze focused on some distant point which he can't see. He used to try and bring her back to him with sensation, to make her focus on him, but she'd look at him and she'd know who he was and who he _wasn't_ and he didn't like the bitter twist to her lips, the darkness in her eyes. So now he lets her float, knowing that she'll land in his arms afterward, her breath slowing, a small smile on her face, and her head cushioned against his chest.

He treasures those moments after. And if something in him knows that he's settling for this drifting existence with her, he pushes the thought deep below others of duty, and honour, and love.

* * *

She's no closer to figuring out how Ba'al did it. She knows he must have some sort of 'time machine' - she cringes a bit on the inside whenever she thinks of that phrase, it's too much of Jack for her comfort, - but what she can't figure out is the _how_. They haven't seen any Ancient technology that would allow for the magnitude of time-travel he's managed. And the only other time they witnessed time travel, it was because they went through a Stargate with the solar flare. Again, she doesn't see how he could extend it to encompass the entire universe.

Worse, Jack won't tell her anything about what's going on from their side. She can't tell if it's because it's the one part of his orders that he's stubbornly sticking to - which seems ridiculous, given how many he must have broken to put her, Daniel, and Cam back in contact with each other - or because he truly doesn't know.

Or, and she tries to suppress the thought, because it sends shards of ice racing down her spine, because there's nothing for him to tell.

* * *

Their lovemaking's been less angry over the past few months, imbued instead with a slow, lazy feeling that reminds her of those dreams where you're floating outside your body, watching your motions but unable to make that final connection.

It's good. Really good. And she thinks that's what's making it feel so unreal.

She doesn't know how to feel happy anymore.

But sometimes she feels content.

And sometimes she feels nothing. And that's okay too.

* * *

"They're maintaining the same stories, sir, and they still firmly believe that the world is coming to an end." Jack resisted the urge to tug on the collar of his dress blues, but just barely. If you'd asked him a decade ago if he'd ever be a Colonel who had done well enough to be personally known to the President, he'd have laughed and then kicked your ass. And here he was, in the Oval Office, giving an update to the President and one General Hammond, the man in charge of the Antarctic expedition.

"Well, the stories might be somewhat true." The President gestures towards the portly general. "Tell him."

Jack shifts his glance. He's never worked with this General Hammond before, but he'd heard decent things about him. A straight-shooter, apparently, and tough as they come.

"We found one of those rings down in the Antarctic, buried beneath the ice," the General shakes his head, light reflecting off the pale skin of his scalp, "If I'd thought for one second they were tellin' us the truth, I'd have let my wife drag me to church a helluva lot more often." He sighs. "We haven't managed to get it workin' yet, but the fact that it's there..." The fabric of his blues pulled tight across his shoulders as he shrugs. "I'm wondering if maybe we should be worried."

Jack was staring between the two men, wondering if maybe this was some kind of trick. But frankly, neither of them looked like they were joking. "So," he said, before realizing he didn't have much to add, "Looks like the truth is out there after all, huh?"

Hayes' mouth twitches a bit at the corners, but the President quickly suppresses it. Hammond merely scowls in his direction. "Look, Jack," said the President, "We brought you here so we could find out how your mission was going. What you've learned."

Jack pauses for a second to gather his thoughts. "Cameron Mitchell seems to be settlin' in well. He's been repairing cars, and making nice with the neighbours. The woman next door's clearly interested in him, although he seems to be takin' his time." Jack smirks. "Probably 'cause she's married. If he's doing anything to try and investigate this world or change anything, I can't find any evidence of it. Hell, he hasn't even driven by the base, that I know of." Both men nodded. "Daniel Jackson's gotten himself a prosthetic leg, and has been out and about more since then. He tends to hang out in book stores, dusty academic places." Scorn filled Jack's voice, the amount of time he'd wasted poking around in those holes was outrageous. "I dunno what he's looking for, he doesn't seem to buy much. He did try and contact himself - obviously he doesn't think we're monitoring his phone calls." Jack gave a tiny smile, "Didn't say much of anything though, and the Daniel Jackson in Egypt is clearly not used to gettin' support. In fact, he filed a complaint with the front desk of his hotel for lettin' a prank call through."

"That's good," said Hayes. "Clearly, we're not going to need to worry about them getting support from most people, but I will admit I was concerned that they'd know how to persuade other versions of people they knew in their timeline."

Jack glances sharply at the President, unsure if that was directed at him.

"And Samantha Carter?" drawls the General.

"Of the three, she's the most dangerous," Jack states bluntly. "She's damned smart, always scrawling equations about - I've got no clue what they're for, and I don't understand her when she tells me - and she's lost the most." He pauses, debating how much he should reveal. "She was married in the other timeline, had a job she loved, a good career. Now she's alone, bored, upset, and very smart. She's got nothin' to lose and everything to gain if she figures out how to 'fix' the timeline."

He watches as the other men exchange glances. Finally, General Hammond meets his gaze, his eyes a cold, piercing blue. "From what we've heard on those security tapes, son, there might be someone that she'd lose."

Jack stiffens, feeling a shiver run up his spine. "My orders were to get close to them, in any way possible, sir, and to get them to trust me." He meets Hammond's gaze levelly. "That's what I've been doing. Sir."

"I've read about you, Colonel," drawled the general, "How you've got a bad habit of doin' what you want, not what's ordered. Like to think of yourself as a maverick."

He feels the muscles in his jaw tighten at the slur, but keeps his tone even. "And sometimes, sir, what I'm ordered is exactly what - or _who_ - I want to do."

The President chuckles. "You have to admit, George, she's a fine looking woman."

Hammond's eyes never leave Jack's. "She looks like her mother." He turned to the President with a sly smile on his face, "She was also a beauty - I knew her well."

The tension swept out of the room - they were just three guys, shootin' the breeze about the women they've known. Nothing to see here. Jack's chest loosens, and he begins to relax. That made the tension's reappearance with the General's next words even more difficult to hide.

"The question is, do we keep her around on the off-chance she might be useful, or do we eliminate the threat she poses before she becomes a problem?"

The only noise in the room came from the whirr of the ventilation system, a noise which seemed incongruous with the age of the furnishings present, with the amount of history that was embedded into this place. The cool air ruffled Jack's hair lightly, but he knew the chills running through his body were from a less prosaic source. She might be a threat, but he didn't want her dead. The thing was, these men were too aware that his opinion was not unbiased - if he didn't act carefully, it wouldn't matter what words he said, Samantha would be terminated and he'd be re-assed to somewhere distinctly unpleasant.

"You haven't managed to get the device at McMurdo working yet, have you?" he asks, voice casual. "I'd say, given the fact she is the only person on this planet to have any experience with that technology, she should be kept alive, under surveillance, until it's operational." He pauses, feeling a burning sensation in the back of his throat, needing to swallow the bile, biting down hard on his tongue to hold back the sensation. "At that point, she could be terminated with extreme prejudice."

As both men nod their acceptance of his recommendation, Jack knows that, despite what he'd told Hayes and Hammond today, this has become more than a mission for him. He was too damned relieved at their agreement to pretend otherwise.

* * *

She's tracing patterns in his chest hair as he cradles her in the crook of his arm. He's contemplating getting up and finding something for dinner, but he knows that her cupboards are probably empty, and the gently humming lassitude that permeates his limbs means he's not that eager to move anyways. It's been a couple of weeks since he's been here and he's enjoying just holding her as they regain their breath. Besides, usually he's the one who forces her to stock her cupboards. If she knows he's coming, she'll grab a few things, but he has no idea what she eats when he isn't around. He's thinking of pizza. And beer. A smirk graces his face. Maybe she'll let them eat in bed.

Her voice breaks the silence. "How was Washington?"

He sighed. He'd made the mistake of telling her where he was going, mostly because she kept on giving him messages to give to Mitchell and Jackson, despite his protests that he wasn't going to see them. He shrugs and tries for the flippant answer, hoping to recapture the mood. Hard enough to keep his mind off the fact he might need to kill the woman he's cuddling without her bringing it up. "Same old, same old. Slimy politicians, nosy desk-jockeys, and gaping tourists." She tugs on his chest hair, and he winces slightly. "Really, it was fine. Pretty much what I expected." And isn't that the truth, seeing as how it's his recommendations they're basing everything on.

His answer seems to satisfy her, because she goes back to the patterns. He can feel her muscles stiffening though, and how her breath is coming slightly faster.

"You didn't get in trouble over this did you?" her voice is soft, barely reaching his ear.

He bites his lip to keep the quick, bitter answer from coming out. _'Would you even care if I had?'_ Instead he waits, mind racing, trying to come up with an answer. "No," he says, voice low and reassuring, his answer honest, "I didn't get in trouble."

He was already there.

* * *

The three of them are packed in the back of his truck en route to Andrews, where the jets are waiting for them. Cameron, Daniel, and Samantha have been tossing around ideas of where best to steal something called a cargo ship, assuming of course she can get the 'Gate working. Jack's watching silently, his dark eyes sharply following the conversation in the rearview mirror. They've decided on what equipment they'll need and backup plans, in case they can't find anything suitable on the first couple of planets. They've been silent for the last few minutes, staring out at the streets around them, and he knows they're each focused on the upcoming mission. And, just maybe, how they could use this opportunity to make things right.

He grabs her hand as they enter the base, distracting her a moment from her planning. She looks at him, but before she can say anything he asks her the question. "Do you love me?"

He watches as her face stills, her body tenses, even her breathing pauses. But then her lashes flutter up and she meets his gaze firmly, her eyes a brilliant blue in their intensity. "I do," she says, and his breath catches in his throat. "Just - not enough." And as she pulls her hand out of his he feels his world come crashing down.

"Right." For a moment the world is a blur around him, their voices distorted in that strange way that happens when your head is plunged underwater, and he wonders if he's going to faint. Then it all comes sharply back into focus, the world, the voices, the pain searing through his stomach. "I'll fly an F-15," he says, "Cover you guys."

They're giving him an incredulous look. "What? Someone's gotta make sure you get there, and I'm not gonna be any use with the technology, but I can cover your six." He sees the rapid exchange of glances - assessing his offer, his sincerity, - before they nod and he remembers the last time he had anyone in his life who could read him like that.

"Actually," says Jackson, and Jack feels as though he's being measured, weighed for his possible utility, "You might be _some_ use with the technology." Jack doesn't understand, but he sees Mitchell's and Carter's eyes widen. Then Jackson cocks his head to the side, and that harsh, falsely-glib tone comes back into his voice, "Assuming, of course, we get that far."

"Jackson." Mitchell's voice causes the archeologist to shrug. Apparently, Mitchell favours optimism over realism.

Samantha looks at them, then back at him. "Make it to McMurdo," she says, her eyes a crystal blue. He doesn't think he's seen her that focused since she moved to Seattle. "We'll need you."

He shrugs, still not understanding what role he is to play. But, he'll do what she says anyways, even if he wishes that _she_ needed him. "Alright, I'll cover you to McMurdo." He gives a half-assed salute. "See ya on the ice."

Then she looks at him with something bright but sad behind the determination in her eyes, and before he can figure out what it is, she says, "Thanks," and brushes his lips with a feather-light kiss that reminds him of some of their early encounters.

As he climbs into the F-15 Jack figures at least he'll die a somewhat happy man.

* * *

She thinks it's the ships swooping over the city that finally, _finally,_ convince him. Either that or the news reports of massive destruction in most of the world's biggest cities. Whichever, when she sees him swallow, straighten his shoulders, and turn off the TV she knows what's coming.

"I'm coming with you."

She blinks slowly, trying to keep her face blank, but he pins her down with a hard, dark glare. "Don't give me that look," he says, a hard, sharp edge to his voice that she hasn't heard in nearly a year, "I'm not a complete idiot. I'm well aware that you, and Jackson, and Mitchell have been coming up with a plan for the last several months - hell, half the time I've been passing the messages." He pauses, and his anger seems to change, turning sharper, focusing inwards, "I may not have thought what you were doing was _right_, in fact I _hate_ what I think you're doing, but I'm damned if I'm going sit here and let my world be destroyed."

She just nods. She'd known it would come to this all along, and they sure as hell couldn't say she hadn't warned them. It wasn't her fault they hadn't wanted to believe it. Idiots.

"Come on, then," is all she says, "We've been called to meet with the President. Daniel and Cam will meet us there."

It isn't until they're in his truck that she feels his gaze focused on her again.

"What?" she says, focusing on avoiding all the bystanders, cars, and debris littering the pavement.

"You knew this would happen," he says, and then rephrases it before she can protest, "That the world would end." He takes a deep breath, as if he can't believe he's saying it, "And you came up with a plan."

She spares him a glance out of the corner of her eye, realizing once again that he's not her Jack.

"Yup," she says. "It's what we do."

* * *

She's moving with a steady stride through the halls of the base, and he can't help but gaze at her with a bit of awe. He didn't know this side of her existed, but he recognizes it for what it is: she's on a mission.

He's lagging a few steps behind when she meets up with Mitchell and Jackson, the first time they've seen each other face to face since they left the Arctic. But they don't waste time on hugs or catching up, instead they just exchange a series of glances before turning as a unit to the door to the bunker.

He waits outside, forgotten.

She blinks at him when they return, as if she didn't expect him to still be there. The other two seem to be waiting for her to decide what to do with him. "C'mon, then," she says, "You're driving."

And then she's off, moving down the corridor as if she owns the place, Mitchell and Jackson at her sides.

And Jack's left to wonder how much of this woman he never knew at all.

* * *

She watches him climb into the fighter jet, looking incongruous in his jeans and leather jacket with the helmet on. She sees him go through the pre-flight check, his movements sure and practiced, and watches as he adjusts his seat and helmet. She sees him give a glance towards their planes, before holding his hand up in the ready signal. Cam gives the go back to him, and as his plane lifts off, she finds herself blinking back tears.

It hits her then. He might not have been _her _Jack, but he was _a _Jack, and he'd made himself hers, even though she wouldn't see it.

As his plane takes off, the distance between them increasing, she realizes that he never looked back, never looked at her.

And she knows, deep in the pit of her stomach, that no matter how this ends, she's never going to see him again.

* * *

He's far past bingo for fuel and he's down to the last of his ammo. The last hour's been spent in arial combat unlike any he's ever seen before. Training exercises tended to be against MiGs, not oddly shaped alien vessels.

In front of him, his radar picks up on a larger ship, rapidly approaching. They've almost made it to Russia for Plan B. Hell, the MiGs are providing backup now. But radio reports have indicated that these big-ass ships aren't susceptible to their missiles - something about shields. He glances at his fuel gauge, and then down at the Earth below, where black smoke and flickering fires hint at the level of destruction.

He thinks of his son, Charlie, and he thinks of her, Samantha, and he pushes the jet to its top speed.

"Off we go into the wild blue yonder," he whistles to himself.

Then the golden wall of a pyramid is in front of him, and he's firing his missile, and his last thought is that the song is wrong - it should be a ball of flame and a plume of smoke.

* * *

Even though it's been a couple of years, apparently ignoring the firefight happening around you to focus on the technology is a skill you don't forget. She knows that the guys have got her back, and so she concentrates on doing what needs to be done to make things right.

She watches the Jaffa go down and then sees Daniel fall, and she's almost there, punching in the last of the coordinates.

The blast knocks her forward, the burning sensation sharp up her spine, and then nothing.

* * *

"Do you really think it'll happen?" he asks, his chocolate brown eyes sleepily focused on her face, his fingers lacing through her hair. His face is all shadows and angles, the light from the streetlamps playing harshly across his sharp features.

She sighs, her warm breath causing the hairs on his chest to ruffle. "I do," she says. "I don't know how, or when, but Ba'al will _never_ let Earth survive."

His arms tighten around her, but he doesn't respond. They will never see eye to eye on this, his world doesn't involve the Stargate, and her world revolved around it. She ducks her head into the curve of his neck, inhaling his familiar, musky scent. She's drifting off to sleep when his voice reaches her ear. "I hope you're wrong," he says, voice barely a rumble, "I could get used to this."

Her lips curve infinitesimally. Some days, she almost thinks she could too.

But she knows she's right.

* * *

**The End**


End file.
